A fortnight or so afterwards, when the public excitement occasioned by the Caresfoot tragedy had been partially1 eclipsed by a particularly thrilling child-murder and suicide, a change for the better took place in Angela’s condition. One night, after an unusually violent fit of raving2, she suddenly went to sleep about twelve o’clock, and slept all that night and all the next day. About half-past nine on the following evening, the watchers in her room — namely, Pigott, Mr. Fraser, and Dr. Williamson, who was trying to make out what this deep sleep meant — were suddenly astonished at seeing her sit up in her bed in a listening attitude, as though she could hear something that interested her intensely, for the webbing that tied her down had been temporarily removed, and then cry, in a tone of the most living anguish3, and yet with a world of passionate4 remonstrance5 in her voice,
“Arthur, Arthur!”
Then she sank down again for a few minutes. It was the same night that Mildred and Arthur sat together on the deck of the Evening Star. Presently she opened her eyes, and the doctor saw that there was no longer any madness in them, only great trouble. Her glance first fell upon Pigott.
“Run,” she said, “run and stop him; he cannot have gone far. Bring him back to me; quick, or he will be gone.”
“Who do you mean, dear?”
“Arthur, of course — Arthur.”
“Hush, Angela!” said Mr. Fraser, “he has been gone a long time; you have been very ill.”
She did not say anything, but turned her face to the pillow and wept, apparently6 as much from exhaustion7 as from any other cause, and then dropped off to sleep again.
“Her reason is saved,” said Dr. Williamson, as soon as they were outside the door.
“Thanks be to Providence8 and you, doctor.”
“Thanks to Providence alone. It is a case in which I could do little or nothing. It is a most merciful deliverance. All that you have to do now is to keep her perfectly9 quiet, and, above all, do not let her father come near her at present. I will call in and tell him. Lady Bellamy? Oh! about the same. She is a strange woman; she never complains, and rarely speaks — though twice I have heard her break out shockingly. There will never be any alternation in her case till the last alteration10. Good-bye; I will look round tomorrow.”
After this, Angela’s recovery was, comparatively speaking, rapid, though of course the effects of so severe a shock to the nervous system could not be shaken off in a day. Though she was no longer mad, she was still in a disturbed state of mind, and subject to strange dreams or visions. One in particular that visited her several nights in a succession, made a great impression upon her.
First, it would seem to her that she was wide awake in the middle of the night, and there would creep over her a sense of unmeasured space, infinite silence, and intense solitude11. She would think that she was standing12 on a dais at the end of a vast hall, down which ran endless rows of pillars supporting an inky sky which was the roof. There was no light in the hall, yet she could clearly see; there was no sound, but she could hear the silence. Only a soft radiance shone from her eyes and brow. She was not afraid, though lonely, but she felt that something would presently come to make an end of solitude. And so she stood for many years or ages — she could not tell which — trying to fathom13 the mystery of that great place, and watching the light that streamed from her forehead strike upon the marble floor and pillars, or thread the darkness like a shooting star, only to reveal new depths of blackness beyond those it pierced. At length there came, softly falling from the sky-roof which never stirred to any passing breeze, a flake14 of snow larger than a dove’s wing; but it was blood-red, and in its centre shone a wonderful light that made its passage through the darkness a track of glory. As it passed gently downwards15 without sound, she thought that it threw the shadow of a human face. It lit upon the marble floor, and the red snow melted there and turned to blood, but the light that had been its heart shone on pure and steady.
Looking up again, she saw that the vault16 above her was thick with thousands upon thousands of these flakes17, each glowing like a crimson18 lamp, and each throwing its own shadow. One of the shadows was like George, and she shuddered19 as it passed. And ever as they touched the marble pavement, the flakes melted and became blood, and some of the lights went out, but the most part burnt on, till at length there was no longer any floor, but a dead-sea of blood on which floated a myriad20 points of fire.
And then it all grew clear to her, for a voice in her mind spoke21 and said that this was one of God’s storehouses for human souls; that the light was the soul, and the red in the snow which turned to blood was the sin which had, during its earthly passage, stained its first purity. The sea of blood before her was the sum of the scarlet22 wickedness of her age; from every soul there came some to swell23 its awful waters.
At length the red snow ceased to fall, and a sound that was not a voice, but yet spoke, pealed24 through the silence, asking if all were ready. The voice that had spoken in her mind answered, “No, he has not come who is to see.” Then, looking upwards25, she saw, miles on miles away, a bright being with half-shut wings flashing fast towards her, and she knew that it was Arthur, and the loneliness left her. He lit a breathing radiance by her side, and again the great sound pealed, “Let in the living waters, and cleanse26 away the sins of this generation.”
It echoed and died away, and there followed a tumult27 like the flow of an angry sea. A mighty28 wind swept past her, and after it an ocean of molten crystal came rushing through the illimitable hall. The sea and the wind purged29 away the blood and put out the lamps, leaving behind them a glow of light like that upon her brow, and where the lamps had been stood myriads30 of seraphic beings, whilst from ten thousand tongues ran forth31 a paean32 of celestial33 song.
Then everything vanished, and deep gloom, that was not, however, dark to her, settled round them. Taking Arthur by the hand, she spread her white wings and circled upwards. Far, far they sailed, till they reached a giant peak that split space in twain. Here they alighted, and watched the masses of cloud tearing through the gulfs on either side of them, and, looking beyond and below, gazed upon the shining worlds that peopled space beneath them.
From the cloud-drifts to the right and left came a noise as of the soughings of many wings; but they did not know what caused it, till presently the vapours lifted, and they saw that alongside of and beneath them two separate streams of souls were passing on outstretched pinions34: one stream, that to their left, proceeding35 to their earthly homes, and one, that to the right, returning from them. Those who went wore grief upon their shadowy faces, and had sad-coloured wings; but those who returned seemed for the most part happy, and their wings were tipped with splendour.
The never-ending stream that came flowed from a far-off glory, and that which returned, having passed the dividing cliff on which they stood, was changed into a multitude of the red snow-flakes with the glowing hearts, and dropped gently downwards.
So they stood, in happy peace, never tiring, from millennium36 to millennium. They watched new worlds collecting out of chaos37, they saw them speed upon their high aerial course till, grown hoary38, their foundation-rocks crumbling39 with age, they wasted away into the vastness whence they had gathered, to be replaced by fresh creations that in their turn took form, teemed40 with life, waxed, waned41, and vanished.
At length there came an end, and the soughing of wings was silent for ever; no more souls went downwards, and none came up from the earths. Then the distant glory from which the souls had come moved towards them with awful mutterings and robed in lightning, and space was filled with spirits, one of whom, sweeping42 past them, cried with a loud voice, “Children, Time is dead; now is the beginning of knowledge.” And she turned to Arthur, who had grown more radiant than the star which gleamed upon his forehead, and kissed him.
Then she would wake.
Time passed on, and gradually health and strength came back to Angela, till at last she was as powerful in mind, and — if that were possible — except that she was shorn of her lovely hair, more beautiful in body than she had been before her troubles overwhelmed her. Of Arthur she thought a great deal — indeed, she thought of little else; but it was with a sort of hopelessness that precluded43 action. Nobody had mentioned his name to her, as it was thought wiser not to do so, though Pigott and Mr. Fraser had, in as gentle terms as they could command, told her of the details of the plot against her, and of the consequences to the principal actors in it. Nor had she spoken of him. It seemed to her that she had lost him for good, that he could never come back to her after she had passed, that he must hate her too much. She supposed that, in acting44 as he did, he was aware of all the circumstances of her marriage, and could find no excuses for her. She did not even know where he was, and, in her ignorance of the uses of private detectives and advertisements, had no idea how to find out. And so she suffered in silence, and only saw him in her dreams.
She still stopped at the vicarage with Pigott; nor had there as yet been any talk of her returning to the Abbey House. Indeed, she had not seen her father since the day of her marriage. But, now that she had recovered, she felt that something must be done about it. Wondering what it should be, she one afternoon walked to the churchyard, where she had not been since her illness, and, once there, made her way naturally to her mother’s grave. She was moving very quietly, and had almost reached the tree under which Hilda Caresfoot lay, when she became aware that there was already somebody kneeling by the grave, with his head rested against the marble cross.
It was her father. Her shadow falling upon him, he turned and saw her, and they stood looking at each other. She was shocked at the dreadful alteration in his face. It was now that of an old man, nearly worn out with suffering. He put his hand before his eyes, and said,
“Angela, how can I face you, least of all here?”
For a moment the memory of her bitter wrongs swelled45 in her heart, for she now to a great extent understood what her father’s part in the plot had been, and she regarded him in silence.
“Father,” she said, presently, “I have been in the hands of God, and not in yours, and though you have helped to ruin my life, and have very nearly driven me into a madhouse, I can still say, let the past be the past. But why do you look so wretched? You should look happy; you have got the land — my price, you know,” and she laughed a little bitterly.
“Why do I look wretched? Because I am given over to a curse that you cannot understand, and I am not alone. Where are those who plotted against you? George dead, Bellamy gone, Lady Bellamy paralysed hand and foot, and myself — although I did not plot, I only let them be — accursed. But, if you can forget the past, why do you not come back to my house? Of course I cannot force you; you are free and rich, and can suit yourself.”
“I will come for a time if you wish — if I can bring Pigott with me.”
“You may bring twenty Pigotts, for all I care — so long as you will pay for their board,” he added, with a touch of his old miserliness. “But what do you mean ‘for a time’?”
“I do not think I shall stop here long; I think that I am going into a sisterhood.”
“Oh! well, you are your own mistress, and must do as you choose.”
“Then I will come tomorrow,” and they parted.
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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29
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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paean
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| n.赞美歌，欢乐歌 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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42
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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43
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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45
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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